Walking down the boardwalk of the North American Kingdom isn't akin to a walk in the park. For one it's more polluted. It's also noisy and the people are nosy, there are zero trees, unless you count the green, towering, concrete skyscrapers. I don't. I've also got to take into consideration the stares of the people; I mean it isn't as though I'm setting a new fashion trend. More likely, with my slack pants, and holey top, covered by a ratty discoloured jacket, these suit and tie people probably believe that I'm slandering them by just standing here.

When I picked this place, I'd hoped that I'd blend in, but I hadn't taken into account that everyone here is stinking rich, something that I'm not... at least not anymore. But I don't miss it; I don't miss it at all. Except, for perhaps, the warmth that money could buy, the food, but other than that, I'm more than satisfied. I'm free, independent and struggling, but I take pride in it.

Who am I kidding?

I should've gone to the South American Kingdom, or the United Islands of the Caribbean. But no, I had to choose the place where I would stand out like a sore thumb. In the aforementioned places, there would've been trees and people as poor as me; there would also be jobs and places that are cheap enough to rest in. Even the Asian Empire may have been able to offer me some solace, but the boat I'd snuck into was headed here and there was no time to choose a more suitable destination. There was no way I was staying in the autocratean, I mean, British Kingdom. Let's just say that extraditing ourselves from the Asian Empire due to pride wasn't shrewd.

Sighing, I glance down the nearest street: Royals Corner. It looks shabbier than the other streets; it's more likely that I'll be able to buy something here. The street even has a bend in it, which gives it the resounding air of non-conformity compared to the other straight cut streets. The pawn shop I spot is like a grail of angles proclaiming my salvation. Quickly, as though someone will spot it before I get there and rip the building from its foundation, I hurry to the door.

It screeches open like a... well, like an oil deprived door. Inside, the man who sits at the counter has his eyes trained on me tugging me in with his metaphorical net. There's no escape. Wait, why am I thinking of escape, it's perfectly safe here... right?

"You have something to trade?" he demands, not bothering to rise.

My eyes instinctively find my ring and I flinch, on the outside it's a blue sapphire with a plain silver band; on the inside, the Asian coat of arms... that represents everything I've absconded from.

He follows my line of sight and his gaze remains locked on the ring, "That will do. It'll take it and in return you'll get five hundred dollars."

I nod, slowly slipping off the ring. I don't need it now, but still, my heart aches to be parting with it. I should be long over that incident now, it's been three years. But I need this. Vowing to myself that I will purchase the ring once more at my earliest convenience I plunge forward into the deal.

"I want ICUs." I say. "And some clothes that will help me fit in."

ICU means International Cash Units. It can be used anywhere and is untraceable.

"Done." He pulls out five hundred ICUs and a plain black skirt, jacket and blouse.

Resting my ring on the table, I point at the monotone clothes, "Something a little more lively please."

Next, he procured a red V-neck long sleeve top with ruffles along the collar, a purple jacket and skirt with frills similar to the top's and a red handbag and heels. He checks up the cost and minuses it from the five hundred. I'm left ring less with 404.67 ICUs. The man leads me into a back room where I change quickly and admire my new look in the mirror.

The clothes fit my slim figure exactly. My face is still flushed from the heat, my lips, which are usually a shade of pink, now looks white and flaky like clay that's gone through denudation. My eyes though, they're still their normal mud colour. My nose, perky as it is, doesn't brighten up my face. Ugh. I riffle through the purse and find that it has everything a girl from the North needs: lip balm, lip stick, powder, eyeliner, a bottle of water, spf 50, a brush... seems as though I've gotten a good deal here.

I untangle the mass of black hair and wince every time the brush makes a fly-by. Two weeks on a barge without any showers does that. My first act upon reaching land was to take a bath. That bath consisted of rainwater and no soap, but I looked considerably less destitute after it. Now, I almost look American. There's just the small problem of my British accent.

Slapping myself lightly, I try to talk like the Americans, but I still sound as British as tea in the afternoon. Sighing, I vow to remedy it at a more convenient time. Leaving the shop, I continue down the street, hoping to find some other place where I can get a good deal.

Twenty minutes later and no such luck. The rest of the people are just cutthroats looking to rip you off.

Rounding the corner I ram into an oncoming man. Instead of trampling over me as I suspected any American to do he stares down at me and shouts, "You!"

Scrambling to my feet, I turn to run. I've been found, it's all over. He grabs my hand and wrenches me back around, shoves a card into my hand and laughs.

"You're perfect!" he says, grinning madly, "You need a job don't you, I've just left mine and I don't wish for my employer to know I'm gone. He won't mind if I send you in as my replacement." He shoves a thousand ICU note into my hands, alongside the card. "Go to the most taciturn, callous building in the bend and use that card to get into the office. Remain unseen for as long as possible, do the job well and my employer will keep you."

Stunned, I stare at him as he skips off jovially. I glance down at the card:

Cash Palace
Rosepin Garrison
#15 Royals Corner

WE MAKE MONEY OFF OF WHAT YOU DO NOT

Business Partner- access card to all levels

I glance down at the card and grin. A job. Money. Lucky me. The lady's name looks nice, friendly... a good boss. True the card is faded over in some places; I could barely make out the name, but I'll be paid!

Summarily, I marched down the street and the building assault me. It was formerly blocked by a begonia tree... but now I see the structure that may as well be a block of ice imported from the south-pole. Although, it's highly likely that she stole it from Santa Clause, if her motto is any indication of her parsimony.

Right, back to the building. It towers, at least fifty floors. The entire building is painted in black and if not for the clean path leading to the dark engraved doors, no one would ever guess that people were behind these doors. I hope the queer man is no indication of the type of people here... he didn't seem mentally sound.

Walking through the plain archway, I remove my ID card and glance at my information once more:

NAME: Periwinkle, Angelica
AGE: 19
T.E.S.T. SCORE: 56%

Said test, stands for: Test for Educated Shrewd Thoughts. And I'm not stupid, I just told the guy who made my fake ID to make my score average. If I'd consigned my real score, it would've been far too noticeable. Also, my name is a phony.

Taking a breath, I muster all my strength and push on the door.

Huh. Nothing happens, I muster up all my strength once more, plus that of the grass and impel my entire body, against the mighty door. The carvings of the crocodile stares at me, almost as if it's smiling, mocking me from its lofty perch. I'll show it! I can open this door and nothing will stop me!

The door finally gives under my superior force and flies open, almost sending me sprawling, but luckily, I right myself and almost kick the door in elation, but then my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. No one has even bothered to notice my triumphant ingress although it's probably better that way. The secretary sits there at the mammoth desk in the centre of the white washed room. There's no AC, just fans placed sparely around the room. The secretary is alternating between answering calls, typing on his laptop and filling out paper work. Gee, he looks like he needs an assistant.

There are other persons also, they just mainly rush up and down the stairs and in and out of rooms. Walking forward to the nearest staircase, I take a good look around. The place isn't the most innovative design... but it's got potential. The lights are those old florescent bulbs just jutting out of the ceiling conspicuously, some décor might be nice, a chandler or two, the ceiling could have some murals rather than white paint. The walls are also white, but there are doors along them in a huge hallway. The two staircases extend to the second level and converge into a balcony then diverges once more into two winding staircases.

Doesn't she have an elevator? I can't believe that any sane woman would allow for fifty levels of staircases. How does she expect her employees to move quickly and efficiently between the floors? Maybe, hopefully, there's an elevator that I haven't noticed. Sighing, I take the staircase up to the first floor and glance around the lobby for any sort of... well, specifically, elevator doors.

And would anyone believe that they're none in sight. My eyes drift upward as my mood plummets. Fifty levels. It's almost as much as a small mountain, and I've got to do it in heels. Not even at the pal- place that I will never speak of, did I have to do this much exercise.

Gritting my teeth, I steel myself for the gruelling task ahead. I can do this. I bested the door, I can more than take on these elevations of concrete. Five levels later... I took off my shoes on the third flight; popped them into my purse by the fifth. God, to work in this place a double sided coin. I make it to the tenth floor and then I stop for a ten minute break while simultaneously surveying the area for any sign of my office. Knowing these business types, it's probably on the top floor.

And so it goes. Of course, I had to be right, my new office... I just need a minute to soak it in, it's smack dab at the top and on the door is marked: BUSINESS ASSOSCIATE in clear, precise lettering. Under that is VX-II. Why does my door have letters of the alphabet? My, my, this lady gets queerer and queerer by the floor.

There's a small slot beside the door with a red light. Ah, the card. Grinning, I slide the card in with a single fastidious motion. I wait a few seconds and the incompetent, loutish machine just spits it back out at me... just before I start cursing, the light turns green and the door clicks open to reveal the office in all its magnificence .

Firstly, and most importantly, it isn't white! If I had to stare at a whitewashed room all day, I would've gone mad. It's mellow blue, with a magenta coloured rug set under a coffee table at the centre of the room. Sunlight streams through the open window, impeded only by the desk situated near it. the desk is white, with a portable laptop rested on the surface. It's rounded at the edges with small ridges, representing the drawers, placed in succession down the height of the desk. Directly behind the desk is a large, throne-like chair. It's almost like a sofa on wheels.

Without a second to waste, I jump into the chair and it rolls backwards slamming lightly into the wall. I was right! Its plush softness envelopes me and I feel like lounging here indefinitely. I glance out of the window and see that the fifty flight walk is well worth the view. Even though the begonia tree blocks off the majority of the city, through the spaces, I can see the hints of the sea through the veil of skyscrapers. It's actually quite pretty for a city.

My flight of fancy trembles and subsequently crumbles as my chair turns and bangs into a plate of metal in the wall. Said metal hisses as the releases air and a mound of papers amass in like a hidden army spurts from the hidden cupboards and flies like a possessed plane all about the room. I cock my head at them, outraged that they would even dare consider my relaxation time, don't they know that pr- oh.

That's not me anymore; stacks of papers can be unruly whenever they choose. Piteous, indeed.

I glance at the room, that is now in shambles and curse. I'm going to have to clean this all up.

....

About an hour later, according to the plain analogue clock on the wall, the papers have been successfully stuffed into their original hideout. Hopefully, from my manhandling of them, they'll learn a valuable lesson and never disturb me again. And I didn't just spend an hour aimlessly stuffing paper into a hole, I went through the documents and gleaned impervious information.

Such as: this company, as I had formerly suspected, has dabbled in all the woks of life. In the North there are various branches, including banks, scientific research centres, zoos, cruises, restaurants, gyms, hospitals, old age homes, import and export, metal factories, antiquities, organizations looking into expansion of the North and most unexpectedly, a large portion rests in the fashion industry. Ms Garrison even owns many of the airlines and cruise ships. She also is a shareholder in most of the banks and has worked as an advisor to the Northern King, His Highness, Marcel Greaves and his beloved Queen Marissa.

Impressive, but it doesn't even touch the foreign extensions which also include may of the above activities. Film-making, farming, universities in the Caribbean. In the Antarctic he owns hotel resorts, skiing rings, zoos, igloos. In England though, she has no assets, except ownership of a port that she doesn't utilize for any shipments and as far as I can tell, is her most recent acquisition. Do all Northerners have something against us Southerners?

Anyway, I've got time to fix these heinous thinking's.

Back to my summary. It's in the Asian Empire that she has the most holdings. There are everything that she has in the Americas plus bars, malls, immigration offices. She owns shares in most of their armies and almost all their warehouses and ammunition. She could possibly orchestrate a war from there alone if necessary. But still, something's slightly off...

There's a loud ping that startles me and I glance all around, wondering where it came from, then another one comes. I glance at the computer screen, and sure enough, there are two windows open, beside each other, blocking off the screensaver with the waterfall and the rocks.

I open the messages in order:

Mr Moray,

Give me information on 'Ellis and Paul's Bar and Grill.'

Garrison.

Mr Moray,

Be swift, I have more important matters to attend to.

Garrison.

P.S. remember that any Internet usage above half an hour is deducted from your salary.

I glance at the messages, and return to my original train of thought: that something is out of whack. If she's a billionaire, which is obviously the case from her various holdings, then why does she have the cheapest of everything; as if she were scrounging for funds? Deciding that I've got the rest of my working career to ponder this, I take her advice and swiftly connect to the internet and investigate the bar and grill.

Normal enough, average prices, terrace tables. I summarise their location and menu, separating it out into appetisers, main-course, dessert and drinks then hit reply to the last message. I lounge in my chair once more, I'm getting the hang of this 'work' thing. I'm even learning: I learnt that the man who hired me is Mr Moray, that my employer is slightly miserly and that she has a 'no dallying in the office policy.' The response appears almost instantaneously.

Mr Moray,

Do you value your job? Because if you don't, I'll be glad to fire you. When I ask for you to scope a site out for me, I mean that you are to give me security measures and potential threats, as you already know. I can easily find this information by my lonesome, I am not as incompetent as to be unaware of how to seek information.

Garrison.

My triumphant mood plummets. Well, how the bloody hell was I supposed to know that, I can't read your bloody mind!

Scowling, I return to my search and take aerial views of the bloody place. It's smack dab in the middle of the city, right outside a road and opposite a rapid rail. So many things can go wrong. I wonder if I should send the mild possibilities or the paranoia level possibilities. Judging from her last message, she's into every ragged detail... paranoia possibilities it is.

My mind reverts to when I had a guard. His name was Sir Bellamy Durco, a nobleman. At first I hated that he made me sit through an analysis of what could happen, for every place I wanted to go. There was a time that I refrained from leaving my room; not that my parents noticed. He noticed though and made his briefings less assertive. We became friends... partially my only friend. When I left, I arranged for a letter to be mailed to him by the next day. It was lightly glued to the top of the mailbox, when the mailman collects it tomorrow, he'll deliver it to him immediately; noblemen have special privileges. I would've told him before, but there wasn't time... besides he took two days off to attend to personal matters; he never takes time off, I couldn't disturb him for my petty reasons.

With him in mind, I make a detailed report. About attackers approaching via car if we're on the terraces, the waiter poisoning the food, pickpockets, using the train as a potential get away, stationing cars nearby- also for escape measures and my personal favourite: creating a diversion so that one may get into the restaurant unnoticed, during the hullabaloo. My suggestion was a jet flying over-head throwing out money. I press send, once more, only this time with some more trepidation.

This time, no reply comes. I wait a minute... two. Still nothing. Well, she might be reading it this time, considering that it contains information which is apparently pertinent to her. In the meanwhile, I decide to be productive. The pinging noise for messages is quite annoying, so I change it. It's the sound of trumpets, what better to herald the message of my boss?

Ten minutes later, the fanfare begins and I open the message.

Mr Moray,

Read this attachment by tomorrow.

Garrison.

I click the attachment labelled 'Cars For Stars.'

I spend the rest of the afternoon completing the file, since I don't have a laptop... or house at the moment, I'll have to complete all my work here until such time that I'm more equipped. In essence, the document was about a car dealership that is pitching to Ms Garrison tomorrow. They are quite large themselves and own various branches, they wish to become a shareholder and possibly sell some of their uprising companies to Cash Palace. If she means to ask my opinion, I'd be all in for this deal. We've barely got any transportation companies under our belt; this is a good chance to further diversify.

Grabbing my purse I start plodding down the stairs. It's much easier now, and since the place is a dead zone, I grasp the opportunity to save my leg muscles by sliding down the banister. It's a much more efficient way to travel. At the bottom I see that the sun has already set, instinctively, I reach forward to rub my ring. Only to find it gone.

That's right, I sold it. It's absence, coupled with the increasing darkness outside sends me into an uneasy mood. I've never liked city's... and this one has the most crime. Crime that happens at night, and I've got nowhere to stay. My heartrate picks up and I almost turn and head back to the office, if anyone bothers to ask, I could just tell them that I'm working over-time. Oh why, oh why did I lose track of the time?

But I know that my legs will never make it up there. With a sigh, I push the glass doors open and step out into the night.

The last dregs of sunlight evaporate within minutes and I'm left petrified with only street lights to guide me. Cars zoom past, but even their presence isn't comforting, in England it would be. In England, if I were being attacked, someone is bound to stop, but here... I'm not so sure.

Something drags against the pavement behind me and I turn, only to find myself facing s dark familiar figure.

He steps forward into the street light and I see his face. I see that he's come to take me back. He's just as bedraggled as I was. Hair and body filthy, he's still wearing his sports clothes from the last time I saw him. His eyes glint as he approaches me, steps haggard and unsure. Without a moment to spare I start running down the street. I will never return and I can't believe that he's come all this way just to cart me back to that torture house... my own brother!